Star Trek: DS9: The Never-Ending Sacrifice Read online

  “I wonder what our masters think would happen if we were allowed to travel around by ourselves,” Arric said, as they piled the cups into the back of the skimmer. “What I think is that everyone would go to Ostek for the day, come home, and never bother going there again.” He laughed. He was sensible and good-humored. Rugal liked him.

  Erani had started the whole thing, Arric said. She had been homeless for a short while as a girl after her father had thrown her out. She was now a student of social policy at the technical school. Arric had met her and Tekis at a study group; Erani had been arguing with the tutor about the causes of poverty, and Arric had been impressed. She spoke from experience rather than prejudice. He caught up with her after the session and asked if she knew if he could help in some way. His father had been an orphan. Erani had looked him up and down and then said, “We’ll pick you up under the campus clock at twelfth bell. Wear something warm.”

  “That was last winter,” Arric told Rugal. “I haven’t been back to the study group since. I’m too busy in the evenings.”

  Tekis, who had been listening to this, added, “Sometimes, Rugal, people come along and it turns out that what they really want to hand out is lectures. You know—tell people they should work harder or else do their civic duty and go into a work center.” She looked Rugal up and down appraisingly. “We don’t bother picking them up again.”

  Rugal took the hint. Not that it was necessary: he wasn’t here to preach, although he wasn’t surprised to find out that some people were. He knew from listening to Geleth that many Cardassians had strange ideas about the poor. They thought it was a fault of the character, rather than bad luck or circumstance, and they wouldn’t give as a result. On Bajor, the Occupation had made everyone poor. It wasn’t possible to hold anything back. If somebody didn’t liberate it, as Tekis put it, then you’d be shamed into sharing. But no one on Bajor was ashamed to be poor. The Cardassians had made everyone poor. So you spread around what you had.

  Not on Cardassia. Here, you relied on the charity of your family, like Penelya, or you could voluntarily enter a work center or, if you appeared in front of an archon for vagrancy too often, you would be assigned to a work center. If you had run away from violence or abuse, relying on family was not an appealing option. If you had been orphaned, it was not always an option at all. As for the work centers, Rugal had been on Cardassia long enough to spot a euphemism when he saw one. But received wisdom was that if you were idle enough to hang around the streets, you could stay there until you were willing to work, or until somebody made you work. In the meantime, you were free to rely on the foolishness of people like Erani, Tekis, and Arric to get a hot meal during the winter.

  By the time of his conversation with Kotan, Rugal had been coming down to the river with Erani and the others most nights for nearly two months. What he saw there, in the heart of the Union’s capital city, hadn’t stopped shocking him, even though he had seen the effects of the Occupation. The children distressed him most—how young some of them were, how sick. Respiratory diseases, malnourishment, exposure—all of it a short skimmer ride but light-years away from Coranum and the five lucky children of Mikor Khevet.

  The others had been friendly in a low-key way, nodding “hello” when they picked him up and “see you tomorrow” when they dropped him off. They asked no questions; he was free to offer information if he wanted, but he wasn’t pressed. He didn’t discuss his childhood or try to explain what he was doing here, and neither did anyone else. The desire to help was taken for granted: how could you not want to help, confronted with all of this? After about a month and a half, however, Rugal made a bad mistake.

  They had been discussing, in general terms, the news that the Detapa Council had signed a treaty with Bajor. It had happened three weeks ago, apparently; although the state information services were only now releasing details. Rugal was cursing his bad luck: relations with Bajor were thawing at exactly the time he could not, on Kotan’s account, risk contacting his father. The three others discussed it in a lackluster fashion—Bajor was a long way from their problems—and then Arric asked Rugal what he thought. Bitterly, Rugal said, “I hope they’ve checked the small print. Legate Turrel will want the thing signed in blood.”

  Nobody replied. In fact, they all went quiet, and they stayed that way on the journey back into the city. Rugal had to ask if they would collect him the following day. Erani gave a curt nod, and Tekis drove off at speed. They did pick him up, but all three had been markedly cooler ever since that conversation, even Arric.

  Penelya laughed at him when he asked her what she thought the problem might be. “What do you think?” she replied. “You turn up out of the blue, you go out of your way to make yourself useful, and then you say something seditious. They think you’re from the Order, you idiot. Nobody in the whole Union is mad enough to say the kind of things you say. They think you’re trying to get them to incriminate themselves.”

  He couldn’t believe his own stupidity. No wonder they were holding him at arm’s length. “But why haven’t they stopped taking me along?”

  “Why bother? The Order would only send someone else along. It might as well be you as anyone else. At least they know you.”

  Twisted Cardassian logic again—the open secrets that nobody voiced. Life would be so much easier if they all simply talked to one another. It was almost as if Cardassians preferred life to be complicated. The best option, Rugal decided, was to be honest, and to hope his actions spoke as loudly for him as his words.

  This particular evening, the pickings at the market had been poor. They ran out of food early, leaving a queue of thirty or so disappointed and fractious people to drift off hungry into the night. Arric, who was an orderly at Torr’s free hospital, had liberated some drugs that a girl had asked them to get for her baby. He and Tekis went off in search of her while Rugal and Erani packed up. A handful of people were hanging around, no doubt hoping that something else would materialize from the back of the skimmer. There was some unhappy murmuring as it became clear that nothing was forthcoming. When Erani went to speak to them, palms out to show there was nothing left, one of the group, a too-skinny and frantic-looking adolescent male, elbowed his way to the front. In the lamplight coming down from the bridge, Rugal saw the glitter of a knife.

  Erani saw it too. She dived back to cover, but slipped, caught her ankle, and swore. Rugal shot forward. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and twisted it sharply. The boy dropped the knife, and Rugal kicked it in the direction of the river. There was a soft splash as it went in. Then Rugal twisted harder, until their would-be assailant was down on his knees. “Ow! All right! Let go!”

  Rugal released his grip, and the boy fell onto his back. “Whatever we have, we give. Don’t try that again.” He looked at the rest of the group. “That goes for all of you.”

  They were smaller than him, and hungrier, and they hadn’t expected him to move so quickly. They backed off and dispersed. Rugal went to check on Erani, leaning against the skimmer and rubbing her ankle. “Are you all right?”

  Her eyes flashed at him in anger. “Who do you think you are? How dare you!”

  “Erani—”

  “If I need your help, I’ll ask for it,” she spat. “But I don’t. Next time, back off!”

  When she had rubbed her ankle back into shape, they finished packing the skimmer, then got in and waited in hostile silence for Tekis and Arric to get back. After a moment or two, Erani said, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  What could he say? That eight years as the only Cardassian in a Bajoran school taught you something about self-defense? That the expensive preparatory academy he had recently left insisted on basic military training? He answered honestly but without elaboration. If she wanted to know more, she could ask. “Bajor.”

  “Bajor?” Erani frowned. “You’re not everything you seem, are you, Rugal?”

  “I’m not what you think I am.”

  “No?” They got no further since at t
hat point, Tekis and Arric returned. Arric joined Rugal in the back and Tekis got into the driver’s seat. Erani leaned over to give Tekis a kiss. “Guess what?” she said. “Rugal learned how to street fight on Bajor.”

  “Bajor?” Tekis glanced back at him. “Bet you were busy out there.”

  Wonderful. Now they seemed to think he had been some kind of operative during the Occupation. Rugal shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and grasped the earring he always carried around with him. “You’d be amazed.”

  The deathtrap lurched forward. Arric and Tekis fell into conversation, but Erani was quiet, and Rugal was conscious of her watching him all the way back into the city. Would she ever trust him? What could he do to persuade her that he had nothing to do with the Order?

  Within a few short weeks, it was no longer a problem. Within a few short weeks, everything had changed. The unspeakable, the unthinkable happened. The Obsidian Order fell. And for one brief, terrifying, exhilarating moment, it looked as if it had taken the old Cardassia with it.

  The Pa’Dar household received the news in memorable fashion. Very early one morning, there was a hammering at the front door. Rugal, woken by the noise, got his knife from his jacket pocket and hurried downstairs. Kotan was already down in the entrance hall, bundled up in a luxurious red robe and trying not to look afraid. He nodded to Rugal, who had taken up a position on the stairs, and opened the door.

  In fell Alon Ghemor. When he saw Kotan he gave a cheerful salute and then pulled his friend into an embrace. “Get dressed! It’s starting!”

  Kotan smoothly disentangled himself. “Alon, I believe you’re drunk.”

  “Kotan, I believe you’re right.”

  “Is it a good idea for you to be seen here?”

  “Doesn’t matter! All over! Where are your shoes, man? Come on, it’s starting!”

  “Alon,” Kotan said with commendable forbearance, “assume I have missed the briefing. What, exactly, is starting?”

  Since nobody was going to be dragged off by thugs with warrants tonight, Rugal tucked his knife away and went down to join the two men in the hall. Ghemor explained with occasional lapses into outright glee what had been happening. Four days earlier, the former head of the Obsidian Order, Enabran Tain, had launched an attack on Dominion space. His target was the homeworld of its leaders, the Founders. He had missed. His fleet had been annihilated and Tain himself was missing, presumed dead.

  Naturally, not a whisper of this had made its way onto the state news broadcasts. The Cardassian people had been blithely going about their daily business while, a quadrant away, one-third of their government had been spectacularly imploding. “I don’t believe it,” Kotan said. “Not until I see that old bastard swinging by the neck from the top of the Office of Public Order will I believe he’s dead—”

  “If he’s not dead, the Dominion has him and that’s dead enough for our purposes. Kotan,” Ghemor lurched forward unsteadily, “the Order’s ruined! They’ve broken the terms of the founding settlement by building this fleet.” Of course, Rugal thought, the Order isn’t supposed to have military capability. “This is what the Council’s been waiting for!”

  “Alon, have you gone mad? The military’s going to move into the space, most likely they’ll factionalize. Are you actually excited at the prospect of civil war?”

  “Central Command doesn’t have the resources! They’re overstretched in the DMZ and it’s the police keeping order on Prime. The police—they’re the key. The city constabularies, whatever’s left of the Order’s lower ranks—if we can get them to take their orders from the Detapa Council, we’ll be running the show by the end of the week. But we’ve got to move tonight. The news about the Order’s already starting to leak out.” Ghemor tugged Kotan’s arm. “Put your clothes on, man! You’re coming with me!”

  “I can’t leave the house, and you’re much too drunk to pull off a coup d’état. Get yourself into hiding, Alon, and don’t stick your head out over the parapet again until this has played itself out.”

  “Kotan!” Ghemor grabbed him by the shoulders. “This is what we’ve been waiting for! This is what my uncle has been working toward his whole life! The moment when the Cardassian people take control of their own destiny!”

  Or the moment when a small group of politicians took control of it on their behalf. Kotan, Rugal saw, was wavering. “I’d go if I were you,” Rugal said. “You’ll regret it if you don’t. Besides, if the guls do get organized before the Council does, they’re sure to send a squad over to eliminate you. Probably better not to be at home.”

  Ghemor was glad of this unexpected ally. “Exactly that. Absolutely right. Very clever, that son of yours.”

  Kotan hesitated for another moment or two. Then: “Stay indoors,” he told Rugal. “Seal the doors and the windows, put the security fields up. Don’t speak to anyone, including that girl of Khevet’s—I mean it, Rugal, for her own safety. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow night, I’m not coming back.” He held out his palm, and Rugal pressed his own against it. “If that happens,” Kotan said, “there’s money in the safe in my study. Try to get into the country...” He hesitated again. “Look after Geleth, please?”

  “Kotan! Of course I will!”

  “Tell her when she wakes up—” A rare smile curled across Kotan’s face. “Tell her I’ve gone to form a government.”

  “She won’t be impressed.”

  “She doesn’t have to be impressed. I’m keeping her informed purely out of courtesy.” Kotan curled his fingers around Rugal’s hand. “Good luck,” Rugal said, gripping back. “Try not to get us all killed.”

  Kotan laughed and gave him a confident salute. Soon the two men were gone, heading down into the city in a great armored skimmer. Geleth received the news with surface indifference, but Rugal caught the steely glitter of satisfaction in her eyes.

  It took four days, the removal of one legate and three guls, and profligate use of both blackmail and bribery to secure the Detapa Council’s transition to power. On the fifth day, after the news of Tain’s disastrous expedition began to leak out, the Detapa Council made their Declaration of the Transference and Assumption of Powers to the whole Union.

  This was a carefully worded agreement between the Council, the commissioners of the various city constabularies across Prime, and the still-smoldering ruins of the Obsidian Order, brought to the table by Alon Ghemor. In it, the Detapa Council assumed all legislative and executive power, the constabularies were tasked with keeping the peace in urban centers, and the rump of the Order—hastily renamed the Cardassian Intelligence Bureau—took charge of security. The military was entirely stripped of executive power, although all members of the Central Command were invited, in polite language not entirely devoid of threat, to put their names to the Declaration. One by one, the guls fell into line.

  The deal had been struck in time-honored fashion. Even now, several senior police commissioners were relocating their families to some lovely houses in Coranum and Paldar, which had lately become vacant. But the outcome was more than satisfactory. Nobody (except that one legate and his three attendant guls) was dead. Both the Central Command and the remnants of the Order had been brought into line. On the personal level, it had been a good few days for Kotan and his associates. Kotan had been appointed to the Detapa Council, and took back his post at the Ministry of Science. Erek Rhemet had been appointed to work with the chief archon at the Ministry of Justice, reviewing all cases brought by the previous regime (and bringing a few of his own). Ithas Bamarek became chief commissioner of the constabularies. Alon Ghemor was running the new Intelligence Bureau. The last member of the Five—the name given to Meya Rejal’s closest political allies—was Meya Rejal herself. She became the chief executor of the Detapa Council, and Cardassia’s new head of state.

  Like many around him, Kotan assumed it was only a matter of time before Tekeny Ghemor was invited back to take over that job. Throughout his exile, Tekeny had sent regular transmissions to th
e Cardassian people, encouraging them to pursue their dream of freedom. The Obsidian Order had gone to great lengths in their attempts to suppress those messages. They had still gotten out (Kotan feared that his son, if asked, might have been able to lay his hands on them), and now they were becoming freely and widely available. Ghemor’s messages to the people now took on an expectant tone. He too clearly thought he would soon be home to attend his own coronation.

  It quickly became apparent that Meya was in no hurry to summon him back. Tekeny, Kotan knew, was too cautious—never mind courteous—to force the issue by arriving in Cardassian space uninvited. Meya should simply get it done, Kotan though; be the first to shake hands with Tekeny when he set foot again on Cardassian soil, proving herself his loyal friend and most trusted ally. Surely that way everyone would win? As the days and then the weeks passed, Kotan became uneasy. He took a few soundings from colleagues, in that uniquely Cardassian way that allowed anyone who didn’t want to discuss the matter to ignore the subtext of his questions. Several other members of the Assembly shared his bafflement, but they were prepared to wait and see. Most of all, they did not want to risk the new positions to which Meya had appointed them. Kotan decided he too would wait and see, but when the graffiti started appearing, he knew this was turning into a serious problem.

  Graffiti! In Cardassia City! There it was, in capital letters scarlet as mekla, plastered the length of the walkway in front of the Assembly Hall: BRING TEKENY HOME. It was touchingly blunt—Cardassians didn’t have much experience with freedom of expression—and it was a disaster waiting to happen. More and more graffiti began to accumulate along the walls and walkways of the city. And then there was an explosion of opinions, as if the Cardassian people had suddenly found their voice. Everyone was talking about what should happen. New broadsheets appeared almost every day, full of argument and opinion. Messages came from Natima Lang, calling for elections, and this was picked up at once. The message from the ground was clear: We want elections. We want Ghemor.